


Who could resist deliverance

by ASheepsLife



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Siren!Caleb, ambiguous ending, and it's real, but the allure is there folks, in the Homeric tradition, no mer-Caleb here unfortunately sorry :(, set after 3x04, with adjustments for said universe alterations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASheepsLife/pseuds/ASheepsLife
Summary: After the disastrous end to his mission to dispose of Reverend Worthington, after being turned out by Sarah, Ben is left reeling. Trying to make his way back to camp, he encounters a peculiar figure in the woods.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7
Collections: Turn of the Seasons: Fall 2020





	Who could resist deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the [Turn of the Seasons: Fall 2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Turn_of_the_Seasons_Fall_2020) collection brought into being by the wonderful [Apfelessig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfelessig/pseuds/Apfelessig). Delighted to be a part of it.
> 
> Big shoutout and many, many thanks to my fantastic beta, [Lucyemers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucyemers/pseuds/Lucyemers)!
> 
> This work was inspired by the Discord server talking about Sirens as they originally appeared in Homer's _Odyssey_ , and more specifically in Emily Wilson's recent translation thereof into English - read up about it [here](https://www.bustle.com/p/the-sirens-in-the-odyssey-werent-sexy-for-the-reason-you-think-according-to-the-epics-first-female-translator-8616105). Though I've taken some liberties on the matter, obviously.

When Ben first heard the voice, he thought for a moment that he’d succumbed to a fever delirium after all. More verve than skill, but nevertheless melodic, it drew Ben like a beacon guiding him through the mire of his exhaustion.

He had left Sarah's house what felt like countless hours ago, with nothing but clothes that weren't his on his back and his head in utter upheaval.

He didn’t know anymore if he was focusing on putting one foot in front of the other in order not to lose himself in his endlessly circling thoughts or deliberately picking at that snarl to distract himself from the blinding pain radiating from his wound. No matter what the answer was, what little strength he'd had was draining rapidly; he wouldn’t be able to continue for much longer.  Dusk couldn't be falling already, it was too early, yet the world seemed to be growing more grey by the minute, the colours seeping from it like the warmth was from his limbs. Ben felt the clammy cold that hung in the air creeping into his bones, slowing his movements, his very heartbeat.

In that state, the cheerful singing exerted an inexorable pull on Ben, like the promise of a warm hearthside, and he let his stumbling steps lead him towards it. He couldn't be entirely certain, considering the circumstances, but if his estimate wasn't too far off the Raritan should be fairly close by. Perhaps whoever was singing had a boat. Anything that wasn't travelling on foot.

A few minutes of tripping through the underbrush indeed brought him to a river and - on his side, thankfully - a man busying himself with a rowing boat that was pulled part-way up onto a low stretch of the bank. Ben paused a cautious distance away, leaning on a tree for support as well as cover. The man was dressed, inexplicably, in what appeared to be whalers' garb, as weatherbeaten as the wide-brimmed hat on his head.  Probably a smuggler. He didn't  _ look _ like any of the more unsavoury characters one could come across out here. At any rate, Ben was very much the beggar who couldn’t be a chooser; the way things were looking, this peculiar fellow was his only chance to get back to camp.

Ben wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his borrowed jacket and took a fortifying breath. Then, trying to look a little less like he might keel over any second, he made his approach. He couldn't quite stop his hand from coming up to his side, covering his wound, but there was no hiding that, anyway. Might even serve to sell his act.

"Excuse me," he called out, wincing at how strained his voice sounded.

He stopped, still a ways away, as the man straightened and turned. His song dropped away, but if he was surprised by Ben's appearance, nothing in his demeanour gave it away. He carried himself easily, curious joviality in his expression. The part of his face not obscured by his beard spoke of time spent in the outdoors. There was a coil of rope in his hands.

His gaze swept over Ben head to toe.

"Lookin' a little under the weather, there."

His brogue was even more pronounced than when he was singing.

"You could say that, aye," Ben conceded.

The man kept looking at him, continuing to roll up the rope in his hands. Ben reckoned he should at least offer an explanation for the wound seeping through his bandages if he wanted a hope of getting a ride. Here went nothing…

"I'm a...a travelling minister," he said, trying not to show how bitter the words tasted coming off his tongue.

The stranger's eyes crinkled a little.

"That so?"

He sounded amused, like he didn't believe Ben and wasn't particularly bothered by it.

Ben decided to forge ahead, attempting to inject a measure of dry humour into his own voice.

"I was ambushed. By...well, men who don't appear to put much stock in sacred vows."

Men like Ben, apparently. Whatever else Worthington had done, he’d also been a man of God.

Pushing the thought away, Ben watched as the man turned to stow the rope in his boat.

“Truly a shameful state of affairs,” he said, turning back around, and Ben couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. He felt wrong-footed, caught in that twinkling gaze, so he cut a quick glance at the river running past them.

"This is the Raritan?"

"Aye."

The man was regarding Ben expectantly, like he knew what Ben was going to ask him and was merely waiting for him to ask. Even though his amusement threw Ben off, Ben didn’t see the need to drag matters out. Besides, judging by the faintness swamping his head, he wouldn’t be able to stay on his feet for much longer.

"You, uh. You wouldn't happen to be going upstream, would you?"

The man tilted his head.

"I could be."

Right. This was the part where Ben couldn’t offer anything in exchange. The man in front of him looked like he knew that, too, keenly awaiting how Ben would make his case. Frankly, it rankled Ben that he seemed to be mainly a source of entertainment for this lout. He drew in a breath in order to bite down on his irritation - and had to bite down on a groan instead, curling forward instinctively. Oh well. Perhaps it would remind this fellow that whatever he might make of Ben’s story, his injury was very real.

"You would be doing me an inestimable service," he said, glancing up.

The other’s gaze had grown unexpectedly intent.

"Yeah?” Ben lifted his head, and the spark was back. “You'll put in a good word for me with the man upstairs?"

That made the anger in Ben flare up. Granted, perhaps he didn’t have a leg to stand on in this particular matter, but this degree of irreverence was nevertheless uncalled for.

“You think I could sway Him if He’s chosen to damn your soul?”

He regretted his words instantly. He was still trying to get a ride off of this man, after all.

There was a moment of slightly stunned silence. Then a delighted grin spread over the bearded face.

"Reckon I'd probably better not take any risks," his new acquaintance replied, beckoning him forward with a jerk of his head, and turned to set about launching the boat.

Ben closed his eyes briefly before making to follow the invitation.

"Should I...Can I help?"

He realised the ridiculousness in his asking, but he felt bad letting his unlikely saviour do all the work, especially after speaking so out of turn. No sooner had the words left his mouth than he stumbled on the uneven sand, and would have likely gone down painfully if two strong hands hadn't caught him by the arm.

The jarring movement was still hellishly painful, and in the moments it took to regain his breath, Ben couldn't help noticing details of the man he unexpectedly found himself in close proximity to. How warm his hands were, that he was a little shorter than Ben, the depth of his warm brown eyes, expansive enough to drown in.

"I think you'd better concentrate on sittin’ down,” came the answer, still tinted with amusement, but disconcertingly gentle nonetheless.

Clearing his throat, Ben finally managed to break his gaze.

“Right.”

The hands on his arm fell away as he moved forward to clamber into the boat. He got himself seated on the rear bench, despite the gentle rocking of the vessel, and as soon as he’d done so his temporary ferryman pushed them off and got them swiftly underway.

Now that he was no longer moving, the cold returned with a vengeance, and he couldn’t suppress the shiver that racked his body.

“If you reach behind you, there’s a cloak there. You’re welcome to it.”

Reluctant as Ben was to indebt himself further to this stranger, he in truth couldn’t afford to reject the offer. So he laboriously fished for the cloak in question and draped the heavy wool around his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said, drawing the cloak close. He still felt feverish but at least the pervasive chill that seemed to give the very air a cutting edge was kept at bay.

“So how does a minister end up with a gunshot wound?” was the only response he received.

Ben looked up sharply.

“How do you know it was a gunshot?”

The other shrugged without breaking the rhythm of his oars.

“Educated guess.”

There was no reason to suspect that wasn’t the truth, but one of the perquisites of being the head of intelligence was an overdeveloped sense of suspicion. Still, no need to let this fellow know that.

“Like I said, ambush. Brigands, cowboys” - he gave a helpless shrug of his own - “I didn’t exactly get their names.”

_ Bradford. Hickey. Worthington. _

He closed his eyes against another wave of faintness, willing himself not to pass out in this stranger’s boat.

“Here.”

Opening his eyes, he saw said stranger holding out a flask to him.

“Mead.”

Ben accepted the flask, trying not to notice the rough warmth of the fingers brushing his. Telling himself that genuine kindness did still exist in the world, he nodded his thanks, opening the flask and taking a drink.

The sweet warmth of the alcohol felt heavenly as it spread through his chest; surely no one could begrudge him a second sip.

“Middlebrook, is it?”

The mead suddenly went down a lot harder.

Ben lowered the flask slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the man opposite him, who had gone back to rowing serenely.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re wantin’ to go to Middlebrook,” the man repeated. “Ain’t that where the rebels are camped?”

“I...believe so,” Ben hedged, trying not to betray the way his pulse jumped. This didn’t necessarily have to portend anything nefarious. Perhaps nothing more sinister than another educated guess. He didn’t want to jump the gun when he was so severely disadvantaged. He nevertheless gripped the recapped flask a little tighter. It wouldn’t be much use in a fight, but it was the closest thing to a weapon he currently had within reach.

“It ain’t far, then, you’ll be glad to know,” the other continued, conversationally. “After all, the general will have expected you back days ago.”

This time, Ben didn’t bother trying to hide his reaction.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded to know, with as much force as he could muster.

“Someone you should very much like to talk to.”

The man was still working the oars as if they were amicably chatting to pass the time.

Ben’s voice, however, was pure challenge.

“I  _ am  _ talking to you.”

That got him a crinkly-eyed smile.

“Oh, but the things I could  _ show  _ you, Benjamin.”

Never had he wished more fervently for his gun.

“How do you know my name?”

Was he a British spy after all? But in that case, what was he doing rowing Ben  _ towards  _ the Continental army?

Another easy shrug.

“Same way I know everything else. Same way I know you want to believe, with all your heart, that you’re fightin’ for the right cause, for the right side. Same way I know that your previous rescuer managed to instill doubt as to the truth of that belief in your heart.”

His voice was still amiable, and together with the rhythmic stroke of the oars on the water it was exerting an almost hypnotic spell.

“Same way I know that you can’t stop thinkin’ of everything you’ve sacrificed, everything you’ve asked others to sacrifice, in the name of your cause, in the name of your country, in the name of your general. Same way I know you can’t stop wondering if you’re doin’ the right thing. Same way I know you’d give everything to  _ know  _ if you’re doin’ the right thing.”

How could he know all this? Even if he  _ was  _ a spy, how could he possibly know about Sarah? Perhaps this was a fever dream after all.

Ben was caught in that warm, brown-eyed gaze.

“And you can show me all that?” was what came out of his mouth, his own voice sounding distant.

The man across from him smiled and finally stilled the oars. He inclined his head to the bank on his right, and that was when Ben noticed that they had come up on a house, set back about a hundred yards from the river at the far end of a meadow. It was a small wooden structure, painted a spotless white, with a thatched roof, smoke curling invitingly from its chimney. As Ben looked on, the sun broke through the clouds, slanting through the trees in golden rays that lit up the changing foliage in brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow. The fiery colours were splashed over the improbably lush grass sloping gently toward the water, too. The bone-whiteness of driftwood, bleached by sun and salt water, flashed through the fallen leaves here and there. Mementos from time spent at sea?

Ben met the stranger’s eyes once more, and couldn’t help noting the way they, too, shone amber and auburn in the sun.

“All that and more.”

It was mad. It was fantastical. It couldn’t possibly be true.

Yet sitting in that boat still drifting gently upstream, feeling the sun on the side of his face thawing something within him, how could he not give in to the promise of a world bathed in light?

**Author's Note:**

> "The Sirens  
> who sit there in their meadow will seduce him  
> with piercing songs. Around them lie  
> great heaps of men, flesh rotting from their bones,  
> their skin all shriveled up."
> 
> Homer, _The Odyssey_ , transl. Emily Wilson


End file.
